


Nobody Understood

by amazinglyhorribleegg



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Psychopaths, Body Horror, Character Death, Crying John Watson, Dark, Gen, Hurt John Watson, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insanity, Major Character Injury, Men Crying, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Mind Palace, Minor Character Death, Murder, Mutilation, POV Sherlock Holmes, Psychopath Sherlock Holmes, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 14:16:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17809505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazinglyhorribleegg/pseuds/amazinglyhorribleegg
Summary: "The world fell apart around him and everyone continued to be blind to the problem, blind to the way the building blocks fell. Each breath was Sherlock's worst nightmare. The only way to stop everything from falling was to laugh at a dead body or to pump himself up with so much cocaine that he can pretend, just for a second, that he was one of the Normal people."





	Nobody Understood

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: Self harm, graphic violence.  
> This is a dark story, so please stay safe

> _"One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing 'round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there,"_

 

 

There was nothing.

Nothing.

The world was spinning helplessly around whatever the fuck kept it in orbit. People walked around, talked about, squawked and complained and _annoyed_ and it was absolute torture.

Some people say that having a mind palace is a blessing, but with that, Sherlock knows all too well, it is also your own worse nightmare.

He was trapped in his own mind, banging against the wall, screaming out in pain, anger and pure hatred for himself, for this world until his throat was bloodied along with his arms, his fingers scraping over and over, begging to feel _something._

Sherlock opened his eyes to find John bandaging his arms, saying something about self harm and zoning out and Sherlock didn't pay attention.

He couldn't scream.

His pleads for help were confined within his own mind, hidden behind layers of sludge that coats the inside of his mind, a deep black, oily and thick, leaving a stain behind wherever it went. He couldn't scream, but he could  _hurt._

The scratches along his arm didn't register for him, his mind too far gone. John's medical assistance wasn't necessary, yet he kept insisting he did so. Why? It left him confused, annoyed, frustrated. Why was he different from the others? They made fun of him, called him things like Freak, and psychopath, and machine, but they didn't _understand._ They couldn't understand how they are the wrong ones. The ones blinded by empathy and morals.

John doesn't bandage Sherlock up because he wants to, no, but because he was told that he should. That that's what friends do.

Friends. Such a stupid word. Freaks. Sherlock called John a friend because he didn't want to deal with John's negative aura that fills up their flat when John's angry. God, it was so _annoying._ Sherlock just wanted to grab John and shake him, yell at him to stop caring about those stupid labels. Friends, enemies, colleagues, freaks, who cares? Nothing matters. The only thing that matters in this rubbish world is keeping your mind occupied, keeping your mind palace together with paste and glue, keeping yourself from hurting others out of their pure stupidity.

Why was Sherlock stuck with this hellish version of a world? Why does everyone get to see the fake version, the one where the sun shines and it matters when your sister gets accepted into a good university, or if your father got murdered. A world that goes farther than hurt and insanity and Freaks and serial killers. How is Sherlock the only one that can see the truth?

The blood dripped down his arm and Sherlock smiled, feeling every muscle move. He dragged his finger through the mess, letting the blood collect and drip down onto his pant leg. He would fall asleep, soon enough. He'd need to sew the gaping holes in his arm like he was sewing his favourite jacket, just so that he doesn't have to be victim of the torture which is to have people _mourn_ for you, pretend they care about you. Truthfully, he doesn't need medical assistance. Nobody needs medical assistance. Why does it matter whether they live or die? Why do people torture someone to the point where they won't even allow them to hurt themselves? Why do people need to be so stupidly self-centered that they think it's their choice whether somebody hurts themselves or not?

Sherlock's mind was stuck to a wheel on a wagon, a piece of gum stuck to some disgusting mistake of a man's shoe.

Where did they go wrong?

The gun was heavy in Sherlock's hands. John's gun. Who cares who's gun it is?

John hasn't figured out what Sherlock was doing to himself. Ripping his skin apart every chance he gets. Ripping hairs from follicles one by ones, cutting his flesh into neat little squares to be picked up and played with. His thoughts left him hostage.

A gun is too simple, too easy. Sherlock was pained with the terror of being alive. Nobody understood how much it hurt just to exist, his mind always on like a faucet running too fast, thoughts and complaints and deductions spilling out over the pages like blood out of a wound.

Sherlock thought there was no way for others to understand.

But maybe they could start.

It was just the beginning. He knew that he would never be able to come close to explaining how much raw pain he went through every day, but it was a start.

They died too quickly, Sherlock thought. They couldn't understand. They saw, they begged, but they didn't _understand._ Sherlock could imagine the police puzzled, their simple brains unable to understand why someone would hurt another human. They saw the body, and the blood, but they never observed. They could never understand.

People will cry. Why? Why does it matter? Will their pain ever amount to the pain Sherlock feels? No, impossible. A human cannot fathom such pain, such torture. Even if they possibly could come close, why would it matter? The earth will still rotate, people will still talk, and nothing will change.

Nothing ever matters.

Sherlock left the way he came, patting up the carpet behind him so that nobody could read his footprints, and he wondered why people let such tiny things such as death ruin them.

Seven hours and forty-three minutes later and Sherlock was looming over the same person once again. Blinding rage pumped through his veins when John looked at the body sympathetically. He wanted to shake John, hit him, force his face into the dried blood and teach him how nothing matters in this world.

It was the father, Sherlock explained. He wanted to punch Lestrade in the face at his stupidity. Of course it was the father. There's no proof for anyone else.

They didn't need to know. They didn't deserve to learn the truth, not unless they can understand what Sherlock went through, and continues to go through.

The world fell apart around him and everyone continued to be blind to the problem, blind to the way the building blocks fell. Each breath was Sherlock's worst nightmare. The only way to stop everything from falling was to laugh at a dead body or to pump himself up with so much cocaine that he can pretend, just for a second, that he was one of the Normal people.

The Freak.

Living his normal life with his normal job and normal brain, able to smile and pretend he cared as convincingly as everyone around him did.

Nobody truly cared.

It's not in their blood.

Donovan was right, maybe. Sherlock was a Freak. A Monster. He saw things in the right way, in such a way that nobody could understand. Rage and Despair ran underneath his flesh and no matter how much Sherlock attempted to cut it out of him, slicing until he could see the muscles, he could never empty himself of such.

Moriarty was going after John. That's what they believed. Their dumb, simplistic minds unable to see _anything_ of importance. Sherlock moved his facial muscles in such a way that made him look shocked, afraid that he would lose his friend. He moved and talked like he cared, despising every second of it.

Deep down Sherlock was hoping that John was different, that John could understand. Because only the ones that could come close to feeling what Sherlock feels would be able to see that it wasn't Moriarty, no, it was just a game.

Life was always just a game.

John was crying. Hot tears running down his face as sobs emitted from his throat. His face scrunched up in such a way that didn't look terribly good on him. He hugged tighter to the dead body of his sister and Sherlock couldn't understand why. She was dead, couldn't John see? Why was he letting himself get so ugly over such a small problem?

It was Moriarty, Sherlock says. John believes him.

If only John was smarter. If only John could understand without Sherlock needing to use force. It would have been so much nicer, so much simpler. Hearing John's cries felt like the beauty of his violin under his fingers. Flesh cut deep into bones, the mess of organs covering the abandoned warehouse. Such a beautiful mess.

Sherlock could feel a smile - a real smile grow on his lips when him and John caught eye contact.

_John finally understood._

It was Moriarty, Sherlock explained to Lestrade and Donovan, leaning over John's mutilated, ruined, _beautiful_ body. Silent screams caught in his throat that once filled the warehouse, once from Harry Watson, and once from John Watson.

Sherlock made his muscles move, made his tear ducts work and scrunched up his face like to John before John's body was beautiful, before he understood. Sherlock gasped and shuddered, saving every moment he spent standing over John's body into a special room within his mind palace.

Sherlock could feel his heart beat, he could feel his lungs burn and twist.

Donovan called Sherlock by his name, and Sherlock could only shake his head at her stupidity. She was right, Sherlock was a Freak.

He was one because only he could see the true beauty of it all.

He _understood._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Sorry if there are any mistakes in this, I wrote it all in one go. Please comment or kudos, constructive criticism is welcome!


End file.
